The Breakdown
by NHV
Summary: The Titans no longer exist. At least, not on friendly terms. To top it all Slade rules Jump. Could they redeem themselves? Or will the grudges between them hold them back?
1. Masterpieces

A/N: This is the revised version of the story, changes have been made. Hope you like this chapter. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome!

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The morning at the police station wasn't quiet. There is the continuous rushing in and out of the multiple minion-like officers, the incessant ringtones of the "snitch" phone, and the frequent cursing here and there. The floor is dirty, but not overly so, with doughnuts' crumbs and coffee spill overs. The fluorescent lamps are flashing sporadically giving me a slight headache. And it also smells like something has rotted for at least a month. Giving a light sigh, I decide to go through the heaps of paperwork that has been properly dumped in my desk. Naturally, one would expect to have criminal's files in them, and it most certainly has them, at least for the one's that are called like that nowadays. Almost all the criminals the "real ones", are the "good ones" now. What I used to protect is now being trampled, and let me correct something, everything in here is rotted, including me. I wouldn't be surprised if the Black Death finds its way here and kill us all.

It is amazing how much things change in so little time. Only five-ish years have passed and look where I am. But truly there was nothing I could do, I couldn't even help the civilians to get out of this mess and I may have left them right in Slade's hands. It was just like when I was his apprentice, the second time. And well the first time also. The difference was that "the second time" TM, he was in touch with the Gordanians, and he wouldn't hesitate to give them Starfire if I tried anything to stop him. Star was and always will be, way more important than my hero life, or me or everyone. I disappeared when I had the chance. I didn't fake my death or anything like that, I just vanished. Is leaving everything that mattered behind in order to save the most important being on the surface of the universe without being able to be near her in any way, pathetic or poetic?

If it is any consolation, Slade has always been better at planning than me. Simple, yet efficiently his plan made me unable to tell my friends, because they would do something and any move would endanger Starfire. I couldn't ask for advice to the League, Slade had already hacked the T Tower once, and he certainly could do it again. If I went to Gotham, he would have noticed, and would have acted. And I couldn't pass too much time alone, my te..., ex-team would get worried (again), and they would do something that could possibly endanger Star. And it is just because they think I am-was completely obsessed with Slade. I mean every hero has it's own nemesis. Superman and Lex Luthor, Batman and the Joker, Wonder Woman and Cheetah, just to name a few. Slade is mine. Was. Ah, Batman was right, I should have stayed out of his way. The only okay-job I have done as being Batman's sidekick, and I still got him into trouble once or twice, four times. FINE, MANY times.

Thinking about the past won't change the present. Nevermind the future, which will be very painful for my eyes, head and overall mental sanity if I don't begin these files today and decide to postpone everything for a day before the deadline. The gigantic pile of papers lay untouched in my desk. They are weekly reports of the so called criminal activity. They are just the printable, generic formats, filled beforehand by the chicken scrawl of the cop in the field with details such as: the name and background of the "criminal", detailed information of the crime scene (the place, time and circumstances where the crime was comitted), the people involved in it as witnesses or allegedly involved, the weapons used in each crime, the evidence, and a lot of wrong angle-pictures of everything. They really say the field officers work more, but bollocks, a police technician, or how we are called an "office cop" works his ass, sanity and hands off, not to mention having 24/7 migranes. Reports usually have on them the proposition of whatever charges the "active agents" think it would be sensible to be charged with.

This is basic management of resources, and, of course, like we are first class law enforcement always avant-garde on technology, the reports need to be passed to a digital a format to strengthen the database and make far more agile any process Law Enforcement could be involved as an agency. In other words, this means that I have to decipher the chicken scrawl, type it down, send it for review to the Computing Datacenter (CD for short), and if nothing goes wrong, print it, attach the photos in a logical order and sign it, forming criminal files. Also, each report has a different code, depending in the importance of it, and we use a colour-based code; GREY, for the light importance cases, BLACK, for a medium impact case, and RED, a high risk case. The GREY ones are usually thieveries, assaults and whatnot. BLACK, are the ones like vandalism, manifestations, or even a conspiratorial plan. The RED ones are especially for heroes trying to overturn Slade. The law enforcement turns out it doesn't really protects the people, but is here to ensure Slade's rule is uninterrupted.

Every day is the same, read the reports, decipher hieroglyphics, type them down, change the toner of the printer more times than it should be racional, deliver them to your superior, get yelled at for somebody's else screwups and go to sleep, on loop. Yes, I also work on Sunday. No, I'm not nor was ever a workaholic. I'm just a little concerned to do a okay job. Yes, that's what I keep saying to myself.

-Dick! – a partner of mine, Damian, calls me. Damian is the typical, not-in top form police officer. He is the one that just sits in his chair all day eating, and barks around the office just because he felt like it. But he has a great advantage, he is quite imposing. He is around six feet tall, plump, and is, almost every day, wearing a stern expression. His ruddy face has these heavy-lidded brown eyes, a thick moustache and it completes its look with a balding head. He walks confidently to my desk, nearly tearing his face off with that impossible grin he is wearing. He has this loud and annoying way to walk, like he is someone important. During his best impression of a manatee trying to walk, I notice that he is bringing a handful of reports. Great.

-What? – I quickly put my neutral facade. Damian gets a certain pleasure making me lose control, and I won't let it happen again. That is indeed what I say in my mind, I don't need to get fired, every time I see the manatee. And no I'm not shaming him, merely describe him, besides I'm doing him a favour, manatees are fascinating animals, maybe I should change his pet name, he can't live up to it.

-Aren´t you a ray of sunshine? – He sits on my desk, making it release a pretty loud squeak begging for mercy. He doesn't even battes an eye and continues to throw the papers he brought in all over the place. And while he is impeding me continue my paper work, which I didn't have the intention to finish in first place, he suddenly pulls the pen I was using towards the left and then grabs it . That sudden movement just manages to ruin my notebook sized masterpiece, not only a doodle. Now that my pen is in his swollen hands he has the boldness to play with it. I look at my organized desk and noticed I didn't have more pens, just a pencil, a rubber, my laptop and the now-screwed masterpiece on my notebook. I try to grab my pen from his fat, clumsy hands, but he is faster than I expected and while he flashes a smirk at me he throws my pen to the floor.

-What do you want? – I ask curtly. He looks me directly in the eye, and I don't look away. He has no right to challenge me. If he knew who I am, he would be trying to kiss my as...

-I need you to digitize these reports. – He adds as icy. Sure, and left them in your desk, so you could go to the boss and get a pat in the back for doing such a good job, right? Yeah, right.

-You mean, passing them to...–

-Nope, of course you don't even know that word. Where were you schooled? A circus? Anyway, these are new and I need them ASAP. – He has this smug glint in his eyes. He likes the villains are in control now. Damian was, and is, a thief. He always steals my lunch, for example. He just haven't got caught. And because he was a minor villain, the Titans never tried to catch him. We had bigger things to deal with, like the end of the bloody world. And no, I'm not being salty about the circus stuff he said nor my beloved chicken lasagna he stole from me last week, he is just a bigoted prick.

\- Was there another fight? – I say meanwhile I take a quick glance to the BLACK files at the top of the pile. Maybe it was a fight with Jericho again. Slade and his son fight often, and more than once Jericho has ended in here.

\- Just...digitize them. – He looks condescendingly at me. And without another word he moves his hand, hitting the reports, nearly making them fall to the filthy floor. If they did fall, they would get coffee stains all over them, and that would make them unreadable.

I watch him walk away from my desk, still trying his best to be a marine creature walking on earth. What an idiot. I get up from my seat slowly and begin the search for my pen. Searching for a pen in a grubby floor is not what I thought I would be doing when I was older. I quickly got up and asked for my co-workers if they had an extra pen. The unsurprising answer from them was a not so polite NO, accompanied with several burst of laughter as I tried to explain my predicament. I got down as a treacherous sigh comes out of my body. I used to be respected, feared and respected. The search for the missing pen takes me a while, I even had to look under the desk of my partners', mortifying me even more. I finally gave up, and raised to my seat. I move a little the chair to give me more space to sit and while the chair is making a horrible squeaking sound, and I suddenly see a little rectangle in the floor, underneath where my chair was originally. I bent down and discover it's my pen. Grabbing it quickly I sit down in the chair and with a face of contempt and victory towards my companions. As slowly as I could I return my vision to where I left the reports, this stack being a lot of GREY ones.

"Revising" and summarizing these reports is a common task for everyone in here, a dull and boring task. The silver lining is that you develop a certain mastery in hieroglyphics. It is truly a shame I'm no longer in the field. At least on the field, you get the adrenaline coursing through your body and while you're getting down from your high you write these reports in no time. But it was this administrative job all I could get. Of course, Slade would want me here, where you can't do anything alone and everybody is watching you. I'm sure even Wilson already know who I am and is watching me from the Town Hall, his new residence.

I proceed to inspect the amount of reports, I had six at the beginning of the morning and Damian just handed me eight more. Perfect. I scan again through the pile and grabbed a BLACK report to read that one first. Apparently, this guy is charged of vandalism. He wrote 'SLADE IS A BASTARD!' 'WHERE ARE THE TITANS' outside the Town Hall. And he received 3 years. I wonder how he didn't get murdered. Instead he got a load of time behind bars, for something you would have spent a night in jail and community service in my times. I can't help but give another sigh. This is something that happens way to frequently. And I have to just endure it, I have already got beaten to many times to know what can I do. And mostly what I can't. Slade just want to have me under his thumb. Scratch that. He has got me under his boot, suffocating me until I won't breathe anymore.

-DICK! – Someone, startles me, and my body prepares itself for a fight. It is just my boss Benton, well Sergeant Benton officialy, and he is just like Damian, only thinner. He frightens me way too often for my liking, nearly making me think that I am losing my touch, but that's impossible with Batman's training right? Right? – YOU NEED TO WORK! YOU'RE A SLACKER AREN'T YOU! GET YOUR MIND OUT OF YOUR …- I zone out after that. Batman would face me and put my toes is the ground whenever I did something wrong, but he never yelled like this at me. And he is the only one that has the right to yell at me, he and Alfred. And Barbara. I lift my chin and see that his face is red and changing to purple. Even his spit is everywhere. How much can he hold like this? His eyes are beginning to pop out. He looks really funny, like one of those squeeze toys. I don't really care about anything he has to say to me, but for the sake of my ears I will play along. As always. – DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!?- He yells at me at the top of his lungs, I can feel every set of eyes one me. I am just the lame and clumsy cop at the station.

-Yes. –

-YES, WHAT BOY? – Vernon much. He even spits a little at me. I'm incredibly tempted to give him a tissue out of pity.

-Yes, sir. – I used to give him orders a while ago, well ten more or less years ago. He used to flinch at me, just saying, "Yes, Robin", "Right away, Robin", "Can I do something for you Robin?", "Would you care if I lick your boots Robin?" Now he treats all of us like dirt on his boots, and ironically licks the boots of the bosses to get whatever he wants. Too bad that doesn't really work for him. But the guy is insistent, that's something I got to give him. After he gave me his lecture, he turns his back at me and continue walking to his office.

I eyed the rest of the room, just to find them whispering one another. I clear my throat and that makes them stop being so cynical about their whispering. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and continue pretending I'm "working", while I let my mind wander to my past. I don't really know if I took the right decision. If it is better to use my real identity than the Robin, hero of Jump. I know respect has to be earned but this is too much. I want to make this right, but I could never do it with Richard Grayson, the clumsy and lame guy, nor with the Hero of Jump that decided to take vacations when the city most needed him. With everything I have condone, I can't honestly name me as a hero again.

Maybe if I could bring a new identity in the game, maybe I could make this alright. I just need a fitting attire, a new name and new weapons. I need something that combines my good actions with my not so ethic actions. Not light neither dark. Something grey, between the lines of hero but no really. Something like Red X, but better, much better, and preferably that, this time it doesn't get out of my hands.

I start thinking while I mindlessly "digitize" the formats. After finishing three full files I grab a white sheet of paper and begin a design in it. I need a name, something to do with a bird/flying mammal. The reason is personal. Long story short, these creatures always reminds me of Batman and my mother, she used to call me her "little flying robin". We were an acrobat family, the flying Graysons how the manatee knew that,no idea. But now is not the time to dwell on that. While I begin brainstorming I begin making the designs to each new name I could think of. After an hour or so I ended up with three different designs, I'm not settling on either one now, but I'm sure I will make up my mind when I see my final attire and prepare for war.

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A/N:Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.


	2. Promotion?

A/N: I hope the delay will be worth it. Enjoy.

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Getting so caught on to these ideas, I lost track of the time. I guess when you are preoccupied with redemption you barely notice when the night completely falls around you. I looked at my watch and notice that is a quarter past midnight. The police station is indeed open the 24 hours of the day, but the administrative floor isn't, where I am currently. I would say I am surprised that no one stopped by and notified me how late it was, but really I'm not. Shaking physically my head, I begin putting away the eleven unfinished reports from today. I can't help but let my mind wanders to my to-do list; the design for the nanotechnology armour; aka the suits, are done, the weapons are also completely designed, along with their respective ammunition, they only thing that changes is the color scheme, and the sole thing that isn't thoroughly done is my signature eye-mask with a little variation from the Robin one. I have already tried the full mask with Red X and it's such a pain to talk through it, not to mention the sweat everywhere is completely disgusting. I tiredly rub my eyes and begin packing my messenger bag to handle some files and my laptop home. I doubt I will manage any work completed, but for the sake of my obsessive perfectionism, I jam them anyway. I get up my seat, stretch myself and begin walking to the exit stairs that would conduct me to the operational floor. Naturally, make sure I shut the power off the light of the admin-floor.

As I reach the op-floor, I recalled the early days when I had a field job and typically departed early from the station in favor of enjoying some drinks with colleges, which right now those days seem so distant, arriving "late" home because I was working has become a habit. That is if you could call home a vacant loft, with barely enough furniture to classify as a habited place. The trip I undertake to my loft is easy enough, I merely need to travel by bus, taking the one int the corner across the police station and hang in there for a good twenty minutes. Seeing said bus through the windows of the station, I run to get out, squishing myself between the numerous officers that are idling, barely entering the bus. One of the scarcely good things is that the transport, either by train, bus or subway, for anyone in this city, is free. I walk carefully to one of the many empty places on the bus, hoping not to fall down meanwhile the driver transforms into a Formula champion. I end up sitting in the third row on the right, next to a window. The road is clear like it typically is on the nights. Another reason I like about getting home late, is the fact that there isn't a single soul on the streets, besides the casual homeless man or women and the gangs here and there.

The road is silent and soon enough the bus is turning to the right on Rayson St. where I survey the building I'm currently living in. The building is charming in its own way, and the silver lining is that it hasn't been a crime scene in years, unless you regard the suicides. The suicide rate is higher than ever, quite disturbingly so, but, nobody seems to care enough. I mean, every day is sort of a little battle on the streets, and everyone is hyper alert on not getting killed when you cross the street to purchase food from the little shop that looks more like a prison than a store.

Remembering that I don't have any kind of edible items on my loft, I get out of the bus and instead of entering straight to my buiding I continue walking to said little shop, right at the corner of the street, just to get some bread, ham, cheese, orange juice, and chamomile tea. Indeed, tea, not coffee. It is quite a pleasant drink. It does soothe my nerves and helps my insomnia. Arriving there I knock loudly against the metal framed window and rapidly I recognize Narrk, which I guess I could address him the clerk of the store.

-Good night, Narrk, I would take the usual. - He already has my bag of groceries ready and delivers them to me through the window.

-56.77.- He barks at me, with a pronounced French accent, that doesn't quite fit his Russian appearance, but I'm not the one to judge, at least not anymore. Hastily I release him two notes, a fifty and a ten, and he shuts off the window, nearly escaping my hand.

-Hey! Narrk, my change! - I yell at him, to no avail, because I know, that he is merely going to keep it. Instead, he solely looks once more through the window and smiles at me, beckoning me off. I return the grimace, securing my things, while I powerwalk to my building. Sure, it would be delightful to have my change but right now I think is a little more important having something to consume than not acquiring them at all. After all, you can't eat money. Well, you shouldn't eat it at least.

I turn to ultimately go to my loft, rapidly getting to the building and in a bat an eye I'm at the sixth floor of it, in the fourth door in the corridor, on the sinister side. Trusting the keys through the locks I let myself in and immediately I replace all the locks, four in total, just to proceed to leave my messenger bag and groceries in the countertop. I turn on a streaming service I pay instead of cable, I change rapidly into some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, make myself a sandwich with a tall icy glass of orange juice and rapidly let the series take my mind away for a couple of hours.

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-DICK! - God, it is 6 am and he is already bickering around. Nonchalantly, I close my pocket size notebook and place my pen along with the notebook in the secret coat pocket of my blazer. I'm reasonably convinced that the squeak Damian just uttered does not belong to a human being. He has a terrible high-pitched yell. The squeak one might say you could hear from a rubber duck or a dear aquatic specie.

-Affirmative, Damian? - I let my cool facade wipe through my features, not allowing him know how disturbing his squeaky tone is. I see his grin growing under the hairy caterpillar he calls moustache. I'm never keeping a moustache.

-Bring me a snack, would ya'. I'm starving. I require you in my office. - Crap. He only summons people to get to his office when he haves something on them. Has he seen my sketches? No, he hasn't, and if he did well, I hope he doesn't possess the brains to act on it. More for show than for anything else, I get up my seat quickly to get him his beloved snack, crisps. Which are bloody expensive, I mean I presumably could manufacture them from starch and they would be cheaper and healthier, the sodium they have on them is outrageous, but then again, I'm not the one devouring them. I ran from the vending machine right to his office, armed with two packs of crisps and good tranquil face. Precisely as I arrive at his office, I see Benton leaving Damian's office, who is leaning on his chair that looks like it's going to crack and is silently asking for someone to have mercy and let it go to a better life.

-Ah! Finally! You acknowledged who is in charge, right Dicky? The good guys will always win, just look at me! I started at the bottom, and now I'm Sergeant. Justice has been delivered. - He gets up, snatches the crisps out of my hands, puffs his chest and looks at the ceiling, exactly like when someone in a lame movie tries to look deep and mysterious and fails miserably. Naturally, I'm willing to maintain my place in these headquarters, so I smile. Mischievously.

-Absolutely, Damian. But how did the get the promotion? You don't quite comply with the physical requisite? Have the standards changed? - I merely said that because, well, one needs to have a little fun in life, right? And he is a douche bag. I think he deserves it, and no, I'm not passive-aggressive. Nor salty. His face suddenly causes me to remember Benton's surely they must suffer from a similar condition. When they get distraught, they turn swollen and purple. A little victory for me. See, Slade I nevertheless got it.

\- Shut up! Richard, I'm Sergeant, which means I will need all the reports I transferred you yesterday, digitized by five in the afternoon. Printed, signed and in their respective files. Understood?- So much for a little victory.

-Affirmative, Damian. - I let myself out of his office before he can ask me something else and swiftly go to my desk, where I still need to establish some kind of sense from the transcripts from the eleven reports I accumulated from yesterday plus the ones I know are coming today. I should have worked at home, that's for sure. I have a long shift ahead of me.

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It's nearly my deadline and after some serious use of my Ph.D. on hieroglyphics I almost managed to put together all the reports "digitized. When they get mad, they turn swollen and purple. Suddenly gathering the ten reports I printed, I rapidly check they contain all my signature and place them in their respective folders, six on GREY folders and four on BLACK folders. I place them at the front of my desk and face my favourite manatee.

-Damian, there you go, ten reports ready to go to the analogous archive, they are already reviewed, and the digital copies are already at the database, I uploaded them a little over an hour ago, their authorization number is printed at the right corner on each one. – With that I anticipate he doesn't notice the only folder that is currently empty at the other side of my desk, which I honestly cannot comprehend.

-Nice try Dick, I see you didn't get the eleven, but with you ten it's an advance. I need that one before you go today. - Busted. But, lightly? What going on? Did Benton finally scold him? Ha! I would love to, I would even pay to witness it. With a new-found pity for Damian, I found myself responding amicably, even friendly.

-Right on, sir. – And he smiled at me, with his not so ivory teeth appearing behind that little caterpillar he calls moustache. He limited himself to accept the finished reports with him, turned around and left discreetly. It is possible that I should have treated him differently, from the beginning.

I merely grabbed the last report and begin "figuring out" whatever officer Bayle-Trent tried to describe of thievery, judging the GREY code printed in the top left corner. As I continued trying to make sense of the gibberish written on there I perceived Damian coming to my desk again. Which is quite odd, considering he was with me less than fifteen minutes ago. That can exclusively mean he needs the other report ASAP, like finish that eleventh report quickly I decided to append a scanned version of the chicken scrawl filled format to the file for the poor someone who will have to follow-up in this case. Printing all of my papers, I returned running mildly to my desk to put them together in their respective folder.

-Dick...- Right as he arrives to my desk I scramble out of my seat to deliver him the las bloody report, and I am only met with a stunned face. He must know I attached a scanned version of the file, quick think. Ignorant face now.

-Sir here is the eleventh file you needed.-

-Thanks, Dick, not what I was coming for, anyway, I will require you to do the follow-ups for the last month files, you will report from now on to Officer Lieutenant Troy. Her office is two floors below this one, I'm confident you will encounter her. – Oh, so I didn't need to panic. Also, so much for being nice with him, now he is going to assign me even more work. I examine his entire face, for an ounce of smugness, realizing there is none, but there is indeed something setting me off. I ponder what it could be.

Regardless, doing the follow-ups is not my area of expertise, but it does enable me stop being confined to the administrative floor. I could walk around the entire police station, from the administrative floor to the analogous archive floor and even to the operational floor (op-floor for short) where there are the typical four little jail-like cells, bearing each one up to five infractions simultaneously, and the registration area where the officers obtain all the data of the caught delinquents and of course the cubicles where they are interrogated and where lawyers either save or sink their clients, hell I could even go to courtrooms to see the trials.

-Are you promoting me, sir? – I asked politely, but honestly, I couldn't contain myself. I could make some serious change from the inside and work as anti-hero from the outside. Integral action!

-Something like that, but you will, nevertheless get the same payment kid. – With that, I saw two newbies officers bringing a bloody cart loaded of GREY and BLACK files. I probably didn't calculate the amount of work I would have to do. - You have a month Dick, for them to be done. After that, we'll see, maybe Officer Lieutenant Troy could consume you out of my sight. Grayson, truly, if you need anything my office is open... –

-Thank you, sir. - Well, look at that. I need buying him snacks way more often.

-Dick, let me finish, from nine to noon, Mondays only. –

-Of course. - Still, better than this. With that, he left my desk, and his two lackeys trailed after him.

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A/N: Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.


	3. Karen

A/N: On with the story. Do I even have an excuse for the delay apart from the usual ones? No. I'm I a cliché? Hopefully not. Do I want you to enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it? Yes. Can I set my mind to only one storyline? Probably not. Plot-twists? Hell, yeah.

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Now to begin with the unholy number of follow-ups I need to do, in theory, I need to check if the suspect or accused is still on custody. If it is, then I need to check if the'll be prosecuted. If they were released and no longer in custody I need to check by what means, lack of evidence or bail. So exciting. And no, I'm not a workaholic. I grabbed the first BLACK folder and read it. It is about a protester, a poor guy named Erick Mes who got arrested during a convention pro-Slade. The interesting detail is that he was a silent protester and his poster only said "SLADE is an AUTHORITARIAN." Huh, he was also arrested yesterday, and didn't oppose to the arrest. He also didn't quite insult him, which will make him a candidate for a bail. This is another example of the unfairness under Slade's, Wilson's government, this poor kid will get years behind bars for that. Sadly we live under the law's rule.

Knowing I should get going, I get up, file in hand, and conduct myself downstairs, stoping just one floor before the op-floor. I begin making my way to the imprinted door that signs the office of the director of procedures, Officer Lieutenant Troy. She is the head of the department, and while she supervises the procedures, she also takes care of some kind of pre-trials. These are between the lawyers and their respective defendant and Ofc. Lt. Troy. She ultimately decides if its fair to release the suspect or to grant a bail or to send him or her for trial without bail. I discreetly tried seeing if she was in there, but I only saw two persons seating, presumably Erick and his lawyer, but there was no trace of Ofc. Lt. Troy. Not wanting to interrupt Erik and his lawyer, I begin asking around for Ofc. Lt. Troy to the other officers in their cubicles, but to anyone surprise they just stared at me. After three other blank face stares I got, I see a woman walking down to her office. It appears she is carrying one box, and I decide to approach her before she is close to the door, just in case she isn't Ofc. Lt. Troy.

-Hello, ma'am are you the head of department here? If so, is that man seated Erick Mes?-

-Yes, to both questions, Officer ...?-

-Oh, Grayson, Richard Grayson, ma'am. Police technician.-

-Very well, Officer Grayson. Now, tell me, why enquire?-

-Right, sorry, ma'am. I'm doing the follow-ups for now, and Erick is one of them. I'll be reporting to you this month.-

-Alright, you will be working with me closely, come with me.- She gracefully dumped in my arms what weighted like four full boxes of full of reports but was only one heavy box. We entered her office and she took her seat, meanwhile I stood awkwardly at her left side. I faced Erick, who isn't older than nineteen years old and looked like he had one of his worst nights in here. I turned to his lawyer, a woman with a fitted black suit with fine white lines throughout and a white formal shirt, black, thin framed glasses, black hair, incredibly pale skin, incredibly obscure blue eyes and a quite stern look.

Ofc. Lt. Troy explained the defendant lawyer that his client committed a crime, the one established on the article no. 89 in the Criminal Code of Jump City, which by the way it establish anyone who speaks up with the intention of insulting the one in charge of government, aka Slade, will receive six years of prison, nevertheless the circumstances, intensity of the act or age or gender of the aggressor. So much for liberty of speech. Then Ofc. Lt. Troy took a mouthful of air. Wow, she knows almost by heart what the article said that surprised me more, well, than it should.

-But, attorney, because of your well structured argument about not his desire to insult, in a strict interpretation, but to inform his fellow peers and share an opinion therefore not satisfing the crime's subjective requesits, I will allow the release of your client, grounded on the article 5. Wow, she knows almost by heart what the article said that surprised me more, well, than it should. I will allow a release today, but of course the defendant must compensate moral damage he inflicted quantified on 30,000, to be paid in full.-

I couldn't believe that because a technicality this guy would get free, don't get me wrong the law is, well, wrong, but one should honor it, it is a black and white matter. If the majority of the people doesn't follow the law, what kind of society will that be? We could be worse than we already are. Imagine if murderers went running and because they truly maybe didn't want to kill somebody they would get free!

-Of course, Ofc. Lt. Troy. We will proceed with that, would you lead the way? - As she said that, in a formal tone, Erick's face lighted up and the attorney's face was full with a well practiced smug-polite smile.

While Ofc. Lt. Troy gets off her seat and accompanies both of them to pay the compensation. I place the boxes Ofc. Lt. Troy commissioned me. I take her seat quickly to fill by hand the follow-up, with my mind wandering to murderers and other criminals getting out of arrests by technicalities. Just as I was going upstairs to upload the follow-up, I met the eyes of Erick's attorney. And everything about her sets me off, but I dismiss the though thinking I'm just paranoid as always. As, bloody, always.

* * *

Time travels faster than what I imagined in the station. The procedures area is almost always incredibly crowded, with the coming and going of not only officers but also criminals. And attorneys. A lot of them. Ofc. Lt. Troy is kind enough to let me struggle silently in her office and doesn't call me out frequently, only when I'm screwing up completely. She has been teaching me practical law, something different than theory of law, and had given me the homework. It is reading and analyzing the Criminal Code of Jump City, CCJP for short, which I am doing right now, being seated in my couch with a jam and cheese sandwich next to my copy of the CCJP.

Currently, I'm with the article 89, exactly the one that guy was arrested last week. Ofc. Lt. Troy emphasized this was one of the articles I am going to be transcribing constantly on the follow-ups. And apparently that will save time to the prosecutors. Basically, she told me to memorize the article 89, along with the 5, 34,52,60,78, and so on. Ofc. Lt. Troy explains me from a different point of view the law, including not only the ethics but also the internal tensions of it with all of the others states. In fact every state has at least one or two weird laws, either for benefit or disadvantage of the citizens, but most of their laws make sense. I mean, I want to stop Slade, but he isn't so mad putting all this rules, it is pretty brilliant allowing law enforcement to comply by them, making Jump City easy to rule over. It's cruel but effective. I just wonder the breaking point of the citizens, I am so close to reach mine, but I truly don't see why ordinary people stand up, they have realistically no chance to change anything. They should just obey the laws, no matter what. After all, we live under the rule of law, or rechtsstaatlichkeit.

Anyway, I make sure to retain every word of it and am tempted to write little notes on every article of the code, with a color code. Just as I'm reading the 61 articles, I give in to my temptation and get off my couch to get my office supplies. I walk slowly and catch the hour at my clock 1:29 am, which means I'm not sleeping today.

* * *

Walking to Ofc. Lt. Troy office is something that has become integrated in my brain pretty fast. It's also extremely pleasant to not have to see either Benton o Damian that much. I reach the imprinted door and I halt. I hear two voices, not clearly enough to recognize what they were negotiating, but I do recognize my boss stern voice. The other feminine voice is deep, allows a hint of monotonously but there is an underlying emotion in there, anger. I open the door and see Ofc. Lt. Troy looking at a woman sadly and the attorney has a hand on her back. Ofc. Lt. Troy hears the sound result of the opening door and only tells me a name. Karen Beecher.

I look at the girl again, and I recognize her. Bumblebee.

-Well, Officer Grayson, bring me the file.- says curtly Ofc. Lt. Troy. I walk in shock to my old desk, upstairs, and search it automatically. Why is Karen here? Why is she under arrest? I find her file and read it quicky. It's a BLACK one. At least is not a RED one. That means there is no death penalty. She apparently engaged on an undercover mission for the looks of it. She was actively promoting an anti-Wilson message on social media and on traditional means, newspapers, conventions, protests. Oh no. She will get a load of years, many life imprisonment convictions. I get back to Ofc. Lt. Troy's office and notice who is the attorney. It's the same gal from the Erick Mes case. I hand it to my boss the file and she reads it quietly.

The defendant, Karen, looks up and stares at me. She must recognize me, she knows. There are only four people, that are alive, on this universe that know how I look without the mask and know about my two identities. Bruce, Alfred, Barbara, and Raven. The first three were my guardians, the fourth one, she was my confidante. Sorry Barbara. I hope Karen doesn't make the connection, but if she does, my plans for an anti-hero would be hopeless. She could make a deal with Ofc. Lt. Troy, Brenton, hell Slade and tell them about me. Before I perceive it, Ofc. Lt. Troy begins talking and saying that she cannot possibly offer a bail.

-Lieutenant Troy. I have already explained my clients motives. They were in no way disrespectful to the government, and in no way they were with the intention to insult or even less, overthrow, the one on charge, she was just sharing her opinion and believe me Officer Troy. If you don't release my client, we will go to California Supreme Court, and if that doesn't work because casually they will not revise the case I will ask for federal jurisdiction, and we both know I'm going to win, because your government gives out laws that definitely violates the first amendment. And this government and whoever who serves this nation needs to comply with the Constitution.- The attorney said. I am perplexed with the amount of... courage this attorney has. This lady, just, in a police station, to a Lieutenant, spoke to her like that. Why hasn't my boss thrown her out? We are the authority after all. We deserve respect. Ofc. Lt. Troy just raised an eyebrow and asked nonchalantly.

-Is this a threat attorney Roth?- The attorney showed her polite-full of smugness smile and as calmly responded.

-No, Officer Troy. Not at all, it is a promise.- That's it. We are locking up this lawyer.

Ofc. Lt. Troy revised the file again. The attorney relaxed on her seat and Karen just looked from one another. The tension in the room was high, I am scared even for what is in store for this lawyer. I'm pretty sad for Karen, but she did break the law and her attorney was not helping her at all.

-Officer Grayson, what do you think is going to happen with the defendant?- What. Catching me off guard, Ofc. Lit. Troy is requesting me my opinion about the faith of Karen.

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A/N: Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.


	4. Robin

A/N: : Hopefully, this makes up for my long absence. If it doesn't, well, damn. So, to whoever likes to make guesses, about the story, make a guess about the road Robin could take. Read you, maybe, in the reviews.

Also, thank you for your sincerity _Miss Geek_. I am sorry to see you go. I don't really why know you lost interest, is it because of the storyline or because of the lack of updates? Anyway, the second option I could try to do better regarding how much I update. I want to make this story as best as I can, and thats exactly why feedback helps me to achieve it.

On with the story!

* * *

-Well then? Have you looked at the file Officer Grayson?- The room around me feels tight, the air is heavy. I know what can happen to Karen, Bumblebee, my friend. She must identify me, but then again I only four people recollect how my face looks without the mask.

-Yes, Ofc. Lt. Troy.- I say meekly. I don't know why she asks me, it is not as I was going to send Karen to prison right?

-That's quite all right, now, Officer, give us a recap about what happened.- She says with confidence, and that makes me quite uncomfortable. I take my eyes off her and land them on Karen and her lawyer. Karen is starting into space with no emotion whatsoever and her lawyer on the other hand is looking royally pissed. Her smug face is gone, and I finally take in her appearance. She is formally dressed on a dark grey suit with a black button-up shirt. As I stare at her, she decides to move her head in my direction and looks me dead in the eye. She has really hard icy deep blue looking eyes, and this three seconds are enough to get chills down my spine. It's like as she could be inside my mind and poke every memory or feeling. Weird.

-Right, well. The defendant was actively promoting an anti-government message on social media and on traditional means. She also has been suspected of spreading misinformation of our regimen on newspapers and current conventions. At the time of her apprehension, she was one of the main leaders of today's anti-regimen manifestation. Also, she apparently engaged on an undercover mission to overthrow the actual government for the looks of the evidence.- I recite the file as I lock eyes with my boss. She doesn't look at all happy, it is as she was proving a point against this lawyer. I mean, she has been properly patient with her, first with the Mes kid and now with Karen.

-Much appreciated Officer Grayson. As you can imagine Mrs. Roth, I can not possibly let free Mrs. can I offer a bail. As you should already now, the article no. 114 of the Criminal Code of Jump City, establish that anyone who acts with the intention of overthowing the one in charge of government, will receive fifteen years of prison and no bail, nevertheless the circumstances, intensity of the act or age or gender of the aggressor. What Mrs. Beecher did, completely covers the description of the crime. And if this is a violation of the first amendment, I am sure one of our judges will determine it. Believe me, Mrs. Roth, I will pick my best prosecutor to deal with this case and ask him to give it all of his attention. You can show yourself out, and you Mrs. Beecher wait here.- Ofc. Lt. Troy said all of that with a mask of calmness but that did sound as a threat. The lawyer appeared to be unfaced, except when she quickly squeezed Karen's arm. I waited on the corner for the lawyer to stand up. She let her arm fall and stands up. She glanced at my direction and settled her gaze on my eyes as I feel something tug at my insides. She is turning her back and from the door says;

-Mrs. Beecher, please remain silent. If someone touches as much as a hair and tries to make you say something prejudicial, remember it is your right to not talk. I wouldn't put it past this place. And Ofc. Troy, I will be seeing you soon, and it is Roth-Worth.- She walks out the door, and I return to face a defeated Karen. She hasn't look up to Ofc. Lt. Troy since I entered the room a while ago.

-Officer Grayson, please take Mrs. Beecher to cell no. 3.- She says, and just like that she turns to her work leaving no room for a doubt about her intentions. I see Karen with sadness, because truly, her crimes would be punished horribly, and not only with prison. I take slow steps to get to her chair and before I can touch her she snaps out of reverie and begins to make her way to the door. I open the door for her, and I immediately stop. The lawyer was waiting outside the door.

I step aside to give her space, just in case she needs to enter Ofc. Lt. Troy. She is about my same height, maybe being a little taller than me, and she doesn't move. I stand petrified, with Karen by my side, but as the seconds go by I move towards the registration area. I notice I have both Karen and the lawyer on my heels, so I just try to stay ahead.

Reaching the register desk, a guy, presumably the responsible officer, barks at me to give him the file of the defendant. I want to facepalm me immensely. Meanwhile, I was flustered by the lawyer I forgot the file at the Ofc. Lt. Troy office. I turned around and faced the prim looking lawyer and poor Karen.

-I need to go for the file, stay her Mrs. - Before they could say a word I bolted to my boss's office. Passing many officers I reach the door and there is already a hand on the file I missed. Ofc. Lt. Troy merely offers me a faint smile and gives me the file. Now I allow me moving at a slow pace before I reach the registration. Karen is my friend, but I cannot arrange anything to prevent her entering that cells. The crime was carried out; the law is at the moment irrevocable, the lawyer made her points, but it wasn't enough. I reached the desk, delivered the officer the requested file and he turned to fill other formats on the computers.

I glanced towards Karen and the lawyer, and I found them seated across the station, on a bench that needs maintenance and they looked, despite their size, incredibly small and lost. Karen was crying discreetly while the lawyer was hugging her. It's is dreadful, but the law remains the law. Don't get me wrong, I have conflicting feelings about it, but after all I'm with law enforcement. Also, I'm quite sure, my boss, won't put Karen through unnecessary pain. She is a good person.

After observing them for some time, I turn myself to the register officer. He transfers me Karen's file with the newly admission car attached and delivers me a card thats displays a black sticker with Jump's City law enforcement logo and the number 3 printed on. Sighing I walk towards them and I stop a few feets away before quite reaching them. I note how Karen slowly backs away from the lawyers hug and stands up. The lawyerstops her gently and whispers something in her ear I can't really hear. She lets go of Karen and looks at me again in the eye. I don't thoroughly grasp why she continues scrutinizing me so much, but it is making me awkward around her. I escort Karen through a narrow hallway onto the cell area and gently move around her. I navigate through the cells to find number 3 and swiftly pass the card through the electronic lock. The lock presents a little green tick and it unlocks the cell as it slides one of the steel doors to the left and Karen slowly steps inside.

* * *

What I am concerned with is that Karen must fathom something about me. I mean, if she knows, it is likely Slade heretofore knows about me. But I'm in fact quite standard looking. Black short hair, normal face, generic looking skin shade, average, if not lesser height. No tattoos, no piercings, neither distinctive scars. Every so often I wonder if I'm completely ordinary looking, that I can disappear on a crowd and take refuge in masses. Because that would be critical if I solely choose to wear a mask, and it would be great if I can just wear a mask and not add, at least at the beginning, 40 pounds of a tactical suit.

I roll to the cool side of my bed. It is around 2 am, or at least that is what my phone shows. Even though it has around 30% of life, I clutch it, carefully so the charger doesn't disconnect and begin searching for my team. Stalking is an ability I possess a certain amount of experience only titan I know that has or had in fact social media is unsurprisingly Garfield, Beast Boy. I open his account, but as every day I see that he hasn't uploaded anything new since 6 years ago. The last picture was of us, and the comments keep on piling. I'm going to read the hate comments again, because honestly I deserve them. I scroll through the comment section, and I catch myself stopping at one in particular. 'So much for having someone who protect us from evil' He or she is right. I decide to open the replies, and there are some comments supporting this person, 'Who needs them, we needed them years ago and we managed' 'Screw them.' 'They destroyed the infrastructure and then leaves it to the taxpayers to fix, Wilson has actually bring the city up from its knees.'  
Only if they knew that their Wilson provoked all of our fights, and meanwhile we crashed one building or too, we avoided thousands of dollars on damage from Slades plans.

To prevent myself from answering rather rudely, and also avoiding getting caught by my IP address I throw my phone to the floor. I sit up quickly and peek to see if in my childish tantrum I broke my phone. I see that unfortunately, yes the screen has a gash at the bottom, but other than that, the phone appears to be fine. I stand from the bed, take my phone off the floor and reconnect it to the charger.

* * *

I'm getting feed up that for every follow-up I need to run upstairs, grab the file, ran downstairs, ask for Ofc. Lt. Troy a small corner on her desk to put down the file and my computer, ask permission to use her scanner and printer and her stapler. The first days were alright, but I find myself asking for something all the time. I look up to see her tires eyes and I ponder if I should ask if I could take her phone charger off the floor plug and connect my laptop because it has 2% and it dying. And I want to finish this last report.

Shaking physically my head, I found her staring at me. I feel my face redden, and I helplessly show her my laptop charger. She struggles to no let out a sigh and moves her eyes down to the floor plug and disconnects her phone charger and yanks my laptop charger from my hands and almost violently plugs it.

-Maybe, Grayson, you should take the office next to mine.- She lifts her eyes to mine and slouches in her chair.

-Absolutely ma'am, but it is occupied. Are you okay Lieutenant?- I found myself asking. I know Ofc. Lt. Troy is a hard almost ice woman but usually she is polite towards me, even sweet on a motherly manner.

-Do you remember last week's case? Karen Beecher?- Oh no. Karen said something on me, and she is trying to cover for me.

-Yes, ma'am. Is something wrong regarding myself?-

-No, Grayson. It's nothing about you. It's her lawyer.- OH. That's a relief? Thankfully it is not about me. That means either Karen has my back or she doesn't knows.

-Oh. Did she theatened you? She sounded thoroughly upset the last time.-

-Grayson, relax. She indeed promoted a complaint against me. It is the second time.- She unlocked a drawer on her desk and handed me the official complaint. It stated in bold letters that Ofc. Lt. Troy has violated the criminal detention protocol by not letting the defendant retain a lawyer at all times. I look up and stutter.

-I mean, you only asked her to leave the room at last because she was reactive, it wasn't as you had her lawyer outside the room and interrogated Mrs. Beecher alone. With all due respect, you didn't deserve this complaint ma'am, you one of the most methodical officers around.- She just gives me a little lopsided smile.

-If this goes to the Control Unit, where this kind of complaints are dealt with, I know you are going to be on my side.-

-Of course ma'am. Whenever.-

We both returned to our work, and I'm quite satisfied she knows I will back her up. I'm part of her team. We worked silently for most of the day until the infamous lawyer came around and demanded to speak with her client. Ofc. Lt. Troy just looked at me and as I was standing up she grabbed my arm and restrains me gently. She proceeded to recite the guidelines to speak with temporary station detainees. As the lawyer accepts she departs, and leaves us in the room and I proceed with my work, digitizing the damn follow ups.

-What are you doing honestly?- I'm not surprised the attorney has the nerve to speak to me, but I don't think she is interested on my digitized follow-ups.

-Working on follow-ups?- Is my initial instinct to reply. I look up from my screen, and she is grasping one chair and with her other hand rest on her hip.

-Seriously, Richard Grayson.- I feel a little unsettled. That is indeed my name, but something in the way she said it lifts a red flag.

-Yes,...Mrs. Rorth?- I say firmly and her face breaks on a sad and angry grimace.

-Mrs. Roth-Worth, _Robin_.

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A/N: As always, hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.


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